


the seeing boy

by chumpi



Category: Panic! at the Disco, Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Bisexual Josh Dun, Bottom Tyler Joseph, Depressed Tyler Joseph, Eyes, Insane Tyler Joseph, Josh Dun/Tyler Joseph Smut, Mental facility, Multi, Protective Josh Dun, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Sad Tyler Joseph, Sassy Brendon Urie, Teenage Tyler Joseph, Top Josh Dun, Tyler sows his eyes shut, Vision - Freeform, sight, tyler is a psycho
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 05:03:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16675006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chumpi/pseuds/chumpi
Summary: Sight is a curse, is what Tyler tells himself. Eyes are simply the creations of Satan, something to go against God and his ways.That's what Tyler's believed for his whole life, anyway. He's fourteen when he first sews his eyes shut. Seeing is a sin, he reminds himself as he does it.





	1. Chapter 1

Eyes. Everyone has, or has _had_ them. Most can’t even bear the thought of even living without those defining orbs, and understandably so. Eyes hold the figment of sight, allowing all of the pretty images you’re blessed upon to flip upside down and then reappear in your mind, as if by magic. The images conjure themselves up into merging swirls of colours and blossom around the landscapes like the blooming of new poppies signifying the lasting end to a disastrous war. Eyes, just sometimes, and just on the rarest of occasions, are said to give such a sense life to those holding them, the broken and the beautiful and everything in between, blessed with round circles filled with colour and life and such a uniqueness that it’s almost an overwhelming feeling. But of course, there’s always some who’s eyes hold such a deep hatred for everything they witness, the world cannot simply fathom allowing them the beauty of sight any longer. With its winding hands of war and fear and danger, danger, danger, the world reaches upwards from its curving roots, snatching away in a single swipe, the pure essence of vision from those who have seen too much to handle, seen too much that their brains are imploding, leaving behind the being in which it controls a lifeless shell of what they once were. And some say, it’s a gift, in a sense, to be able to lose what you once had, if what you once had was overpowering, overwhelming and all too tragic. Because, really, who wants those memories and visions when everything could just be gone?

 

Tyler Robert Joseph (although most people just call him Ty, per his forceful request) has this same mindset. He’s seen too many things that have, in turn, corrupted his mind into a barren landscape with burning trees and screaming figures, clawing at their eyes, crimson trails of tears staining their pale cheeks like the tracks of a flowing river. He thinks it’s symbolic that the creatures in his head are ridding themselves as the curses people like to address as “eyes”. For Tyler, he believes that ‘eyes’ are nothing but one of Satan’s creations; a way to turn people on themselves, having them destroy what they are, starting from the inside, and he isn’t about to let himself be corrupted like everyone else on this damned planet. Nobody can be trusted if they still believe in the essence of sight. Nobody. (Which is why he ends up almost stabbing his mother to death when she tries to argue with him that eyes are creations of God).

 

And now, because of his defiant beliefs, he stands in his dingy little bathroom, the light is flickering above him and the bathroom mirror, while dirty, is still _just_ clean enough that he can _see_ his reflection. He can _see_ the way dark bags hang loosely under those deep, misleading orbs, he can _see_ how his pale, bony hands shake around the glinting needle and crimson-red thread, he can _see_ how his cheeks are hollowed inwards, as if tiny people had slowly been chipping away at the skin there, waiting for it to finally cave inwards. He blinks slowly, revelling in the peaceful darkness it brings when he closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, the mirror is shattered into pieces and there’s blood dripping down his knuckles where shards of glass are sticking out of the impaled, torn skin. 

 

Tyler pays no mind to the pain, seeing as pain is really, just a figment of everyone’s imagination. In his (right) opinion, pain is just something fictional people have made up to make themselves feel better about being _weak_. He barely registers what he’s doing until he can only _see_ out of his left eye. There are trickles of blood staining his sweeping eyelashes and dripping down his cheeks and neck, staining his shirt a deep red. His right eye, is a pretty sight, Tyler tells himself, there’s a smile (some would describe it as something psychotic) gracing his cracked lips as he admired the beauty of his creation. His right is sewn shut, the red thread is a stark contrast against his freckled, pale skin, but it’s beautiful nevertheless. Tyler cuts the rest of the thread and moves onto his next eye, he imagines this one is going to be harder than before, but really, sight is a myth and he doesn’t need it, just needs to rely on his other senses, seeing as they aren’t cast by the dark lord of the underworld, that is. 

 

Tyler is still admiring his work, tracing his fingers over the bump stitching and the blood that is coating his sticky fingers when a piercing scream echoes through the house. He doesn’t react, seeing as even though the noise is _directly_ behind him, he feels at peace with himself and turns on his own accord, in his own time. There is no longer the twisted image of his mother that invades his mind, poisoning it with its venomous ways, no, now everything is just a simple void. It’s better that way, Tyler grins. “Isn’t it pretty, mother?” His voice is sugary sweet, and if he were speaking to anyone else he imagines they might need a filling with how sickening he’s made his caramel laced voice seem. “Don’t you think so, mother?” He asks again, and this time there’s more anger infused with his words; as if this time it’s his own words that are venomous. Maybe next time he’ll have to sew his mouth shut, Tyler thinks to himself in an eerie side-thought, he traces his bloody fingers over his lips, now stained red, and imagines that there are bumps where his lips have been sewn shut. The thought brings pleasure to his darkening mind. 

 

“Chris?” Mrs. Joseph calls out cautiously to her husband, her voice is shaking and she’s slowly making her way backwards, out of the tight bathroom. She can see the broken, bloody shards of glass behind Tyler, spread across the sink in an unorganized pattern, she tries to remind herself that this is her son and he wouldn’t do anything to her, but really, she _knows_ he wouldn’t hesitate to stab a shard through her chest and then act as if he did no wrong. It was just in his twisted nature. Sometimes she thinks that maybe if she’d given Tyler a better childhood; if he’d have been left alone less and didn’t have to fend for himself as much, that he wouldn’t be like this, he’d be _normal_ like all the other kids. But maybe, he was meant to be like this the whole time. She whispers a prayer to God under her breath, and backs out of the Bathroom, calling for her husband again, pleading for him to call Dr Petersons and _quickly._

 

The psychiatric doctors take Tyler only around 10 minutes later, his eyes are still sewn shut, there’s still blood rolling down his face and staining his shirt, his knuckles are still bloody and bruised and Mrs Joseph can still hear him screaming his lungs out, attracting all of their nosey neighbours, even as he’s being dragged away into the back of a white van. His hands graze the side and Mrs Joseph lets out a deep sigh upon the red hand-print being left on the once pristine door. This is for the best, she reminds herself, and maybe one day Tyler would be able to come back, and he’d be _okay._

 

That was four years ago, Tyler was fourteen at the time, and now he’s eighteen. He’s kept in a lower containment cell at the bottom of the facility, away from all of the other “patients”, where his screams simply echo off of his cell walls instead of attracting the prying _eyes_ of other “patients” like they used to do. There are no lights in his cell, nor windows. But it’s not like it would really matter to him; his eyes are still sewn shut with that same, red thread and he still believes, quite strongly, that vision is the essence of disloyalty and betrayal against God. His hearing, however, is a lot better now. He can hear how the other “patients” talk and bicker amongst themselves, how the guards shout and argue with people and every single new arrival to come to the facility. And one day, while he’s sat there in the dark with his bleeding lips and bitten fingernails and twisted fantasies, he hears a single sentence that intrigues him to no end, for what reason, he cannot fathom. 

 

“Welcome to the facility, Joshua Dun. We hope you enjoy your stay here.” 

 

Tyler was going to find this ‘Joshua Dun’ and make him _see._


	2. Chapter 2

Tyler slowly, quietly taps his blackened fingers against the concrete wall he’s crouched next to, his finger tips are raw and bitten as they drag over the deep scratches embedded in the dirt-ridden concrete over and over again; the scratches that adorn each and every wall being just another heavy pointer to the deep insanity of the patient who abides inside them. But they make Tyler feel at home, make him feel as if he has some sort of control over the box he was forced into for the majority of his life.

 

An old record player sits in the other corner of the dark room, playing scratchy notes every so often and it makes Tyler want to rip his ears out, to pull at them till the skin and flesh and nerves are tearing and snapping and breaking and peeling away to reveal the bleeding red underneaths, squirting the warm crimson liquid down the sides of his face till he’s practically dripping with blood. 

 

But he doesn’t, because that’d be insane and he isn’t insane. Not really. 

 

Tyler, he’s just- realistic, in his own, twisted, manipulative way. 

He just _sees_ things in ways others don’t, without having to actually see them with his own, cursed upon eyes because that would be unholy and Tyler, he’s a child of god even if sometimes, and just sometimes, he has impure thoughts about a _boy_ called Josh.

 

Josh Dun.

 

Joshua William Dun.

 

Tyler listened, and he listened well, carefully hearing Josh speak to the other inmates with peaked curiosity, taking in every little detail he could take in without actually being near the other boy at all. 

 

Three siblings, a dog named Jim, major anger issues and a fatal incident with his late father that had caused him to get sent to this mental institution is what he had learnt about the boy and to say he was intrigued would be an understatement.

 

Tyler kept all of the information he had down about Josh locked away in the very back of his mind, far, far away from the demons that tortured his poisoned mind, taunting him and screaming themselves hoarse till Tyler himself was banging his head fiercely against the concrete walls in hopes of pushing his demons away, and then nurses and doctors were rushing in to restrain him- to try and attempt to stop him from doing any major damage. 

 

The doctors there liked to act as if Tyler was just a mere child, as if he was just a 14 year old boy again, who was scared and naive and had just sowed his eyes shut in his dingy bathroom. 

They acted as if Tyler didn’t have _Blurryface_ in the back of his persona, ready to kill them with a single squeeze of his fist. 

 

The doctors themselves were naive, scared little things and that was what Tyler enjoyed about toying with them, acting deviously innocent and then only striking at the very last moment; when they’re distracted and pitifully hopeful that Tyler’s getting ‘better.’ 

He sneaks in with practiced ease, taking their keycards with a simple swipe of his fingers. 

 

Tyler had about three different keycards hidden around his concrete box of a home, but he only really needed one now- one to go and find Joshua William Dun and make him his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still haven’t bought a new laptop so I’m writing on my phone soz hah


End file.
